Don Eppes, In Three Parts
by delga
Summary: Don fic. But Don never was that good with words. [COMPLETE]
1. I am clinging to my ways

**Don Eppes, In Three Parts**

* * *

**Title**: Don Eppes, In Three Parts 

**Fandom**: Numb3rs

**Summary**: _The phone rings. He ignores it._

**Spoilers**: Minors for _Structural Corruption_ and _Counterfeit Reality_

**A.N.** Two more sections yet to come. I promise. Chapter titles from Mary Chapin Carpenter's "I Am A Town". Also, chronology? What's that?

_

* * *

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_i. I am clinging to my ways_

He sits in the car for a full twenty minutes before realising there is no way he is going to leave now. Rapping his thumbs against the steering wheel one last time, he finally gets out with his duffel bag and heads for the door.

He knocks and there's a moment when he tries to figure out how much time he has to escape before the door opens, but it's a fruitless task. Charlie is the mathematician, not him.

It's past midnight. The neighbourhood is quiet and empty; the silence is unnatural. The house is dark except for a lamp in the front room. Dad's still up, then.

He's just about to give up, turn around (run away) when he hears movement; sees the light come on, his Dad shuffling towards the door.

"Donnie?"

He shrugs, mindlessly. "Hey Dad."

He has come home.

--

He's determined not to take an airplane although that would be the most logical course of action. Instead, he tells his dad he'll drive down (he'll need the car in L.A. he reasons). He can feel his childhood clawing at him, dragging him back and he fights it; fights the pull of gravity, returning him to Ground Zero.

He tells Kim he'll be back soon, hopefully. It's all right, she intones, the way she's supposed to. It's all right. Family comes first. She looks sad when she hugs him, as though she's party to a secret, a greater truth. When she holds him, it feels like goodbye. (He realises later that it was the transfer that changed everything; the transfer said, _This is long term, however you want to spin it_).

"I'll be back," he says. "I will."

The words taste like lies.

--

The phone rings. He ignores it.

--

He'd been almost nervous at the time but he was at that age when bravado overcomes all other senses, and so he'd asked her if she wanted something to eat and she'd said yes. It was a good thing that she'd said yes. He didn't have the right response stored up for "No."

(But why would she say no? It was only pizza and beer. Pizza and beer in a Laundromat, waiting for midnight to come so they could close shop).

So she said, "Yes," and he said, "Great," and they ate pizza and drank beer and when she kissed him, he didn't resist and it was the beginning of something comfortable and new. It was a beginning that led to an end, but it was a quiet end and at least their expectations weren't out of reach. So when it was over, it was over and it wasn't that big a deal after all.

"Just history," she said.

--

The phone rings.

(Don can't do this right now).

It keeps ringing.

--

Somewhere en route, he has to make a stop. It's a quiet town, making its money from the travelling crowd. He books a room in a motel, leaves his phone in his bag (three missed calls so far), heads for a bar and a beer. He meets a girl.

She's golden brown from the sun, dark haired and wild eyed. She's not quite pretty but it's not like she's ugly, either. He buys her a drink, makes the appropriate small talk and takes her back to the motel. (Kim is thrown out of his mind. He's always had a taste for blondes; this is different, a shock to the system). She wears a tiny silver anklet and smells of Arizona heat. She closes around him hotly and he tells himself he doesn't care. It's just sex. Just sex.

Afterwards, she laughs at him. "You're so sad," she says.

He spends a whole week in that little town before facing up to the fact that he has to move on and, when he goes, he doesn't look back. He still thinks about the girl sometimes, wonders what she's doing.

And then he forgets her and he moves on.

--

(She sends the ring back six months later. He comes home to find the box on the table. He sees the postmark, knows what it means. Hides the box in the attic. Doesn't open it again for three years until Charlie gives it back to him, torn open like Pandora's Box).

--

Most days he screens every call he gets, lets the machine catch it. He feels bad, but he won't answer.

The phone rings.

--

" --you'll be working with most of the time. Ah, this is Terry Lake. She'll be heading up the team with you."

(They shake hands. They smile).

"Pleasure to meet you."

"You too."

(The AD leaves; they burst into laughter. It's not awkward, it's just history and it turns out she was right all along).

--

He picks up the phone; he knows it's his Dad. He knows what he wants. (_Your Mom needs to see you. Your Mom's dying_). He tries to put it off, over and over again. He doesn't want to go back, doesn't want to have to face all of that. Can't bear the thought of watching his Mom waste away.

The phone rings and he picks it up.

"Come home, Donnie. We need you."

_

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_


	2. dust you leave behind

**Don Eppes, In Three Parts**

* * *

**Title**: Don Eppes, In Three Parts 

**Fandom**: Numb3rs

**Summary**: _"Statistically, you're dead now. Do you know what that means?"_

**Spoilers**: General spoilers for S1.

**Warning**: Minor use of bad language, in case anyone cares

**A.N.** One more section yet to come. I promise. Chapter titles from Mary Chapin Carpenter's "I Am A Town". Many thanks to my beta tigertrapped and everyone who reviewed last time. Sorry for the delay. More notes at end of chapter.

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_ii. dust you leave behind_

"Statistically, you're dead now."

Don wants to tell him to shut the hell up.

--

When Don was twelve, Charlie disappeared. It wasn't for very long (an hour) and it wasn't all that far (the space between the garage and the shed) but it was enough to get his mother well and truly wound. Between her hysteria and his father's drawn features, Don had been able to slip in between the police and the ever-anxious neighbours and into the garden where he found his little brother, sleeping.

(This was typical, of course; Charlie dozing in the eye of the storm).

Dad had been furious, he remembers, but his mother had just bundled Charlie into her arms and walked off up the stairs. Don made dinner and went to sleep. It wasn't about him; it never really was.

--

He gets the invite to her wedding the morning after another fight with Kim. He's not quite certain how he's supposed to feel, so he sticks it to the fridge with a magnet and leaves.

He doesn't go, of course, just sends a card. Doesn't mention Kim or the flat or the fact that he'll never forget the way she looked in the yellow light of the Laundromat, the scent of freesias in her hair and the sweet taste of contentment on her lips.

He hears about the divorce two years later. Ignores the small part of him that's glad. (The card was still there, stuck to the fridge, aged and colourless, when he took his bags and went home).

--

Charlie's greatest fear is death and all that he can't control. That's the reason, Don suspects, Charlie can't focus on anything more substantial than numbers. It's all very well that his little brother's a genius but he still needs his Mom's hand to cross the road.

When Charlie is thirteen, he's accepted at Princeton and Mom gets ready to go too. Don doesn't say anything but he knows, the way he knows his mother's face, that his parents aren't doing all that well. He keeps his head down, does his work, plays baseball now and then and does his damndest to block out the arguments, the shouting and the stifling quality of the air in their house.

Charlie sleeps through the noise and the trouble, goes about his days the same as ever. Don would never say so, but it was times like these he was ever so slightly jealous of his little brother and the peace he had, all tied up in his own little world with only equations and statistics to weigh down his mind.

--

"Statistically, you're dead now. Do you know what that means?"

And of course he _knows_, of course he understands. He was lying on the floor with a gun pointed to his head and every second after the shot felt endless and unreal; his breath was caught in his chest, the blood was rushing through his head and his hands felt clammy and stiff.

The shot rang out and Don stopped.

Stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking. Then, suddenly, it was over as quickly as it had begun and Don just wanted nothing more than to forget it had ever happened. Son of bitch had taken his gun, too. Power play, Terry would call it. Head fuck was closer to the mark.

(And here was Charlie, still fumbling over the facts and the figures, trying to find life in the patterns on his blackboard).

--

"You should smile more," she says, pretty in the dawn light.

"What?" (And he's confused, perhaps, or just intrigued by the attention).

"You heard me." She turns in to him, drawing a finger across his jaw. "You should smile more. Your whole face just—" She bites her lips, shy. "You light up when you smile."

There's a pause whilst he toys with the idea before taking a breath and diving in head first. He asks her to marry him; she purrs delightedly, throws her arms around his neck and says yes, yes, of course; yes. She kisses him and loves him, treats him like a man and six months later, he walks out of the door and drives back home, torn between the two lives he has lived.

--

(He sees Charlie and his mind detonates. All he wants to do is get to his brother and push him out of the way.

_Please_, he begs, of no one in particular, _Please_, _there's so much more I need to explain to him_.

He runs to his brother, a sniper's shots ringing in his ears and a prayer resting on the dry palette of his lips).

--

He leaves.

Mom begs him not to go; Dad gives him an impenetrable gaze. Don packs his bags, tries to placate his Mother, tries to explain that it's just one job, that he'll be back as soon as he possibly can. Charlie hides in the other room, peeking through the crack in the doorjamb a little resentful and a little bewildered, all mixed into one.

(Don never tells them why he needs to leave; doesn't tell them how the air in the house presses down in on his sides until he can't possibly breathe. Doesn't tell his mother that all the love in the world couldn't stop him from breaking free from the misery that is his family. Doesn't tell her that he loves her or that he's sorry, just that he has to do this and anyway, it will all be over soon).

The next time Don comes home, his Mother is dying and he wonders how it is that he's always running away from himself, yet never getting further away.

* * *

**A.N. II**: I hope it's clear that this isn't a fic _against_ Charlie; just one in which I try to sort out Don's family issues, of which I'm sure he has a few. 


	3. memories and stillness

**Don Eppes, In Three Parts**

* * *

**Title:** Don Eppes, In Three Parts 

**Fandom**: Numb3rs

**Summary**: _(But Don never was that good with words)_.

**Spoilers**: General spoilers for S1.

**A.N.** This is the final section. Chapter titles from Mary Chapin Carpenter's "I Am A Town". Thanks to **nowastedspace** for the beta and thank you to everyone who reviewed.

* * *

_iii. memories and stillness_

"I don't— I _don't_ understand. I mean, I get it but I don't, I don't know what it means that… what—" And Charlie turns to him with pleading eyes, needing him to explain the parameters once again.

(But Don never was that good with words).

--

He loves his mother in the abstract way any teenage boy loves his mother; quietly, unobtrusively; secretly. Don never was his mother's son but he remembers a time when the two of them shared company, unfettered by the complications of adding Charlie to the equation. Don would play with the train set Uncle Albert bought him for his birthday and his mother would tend the flowerbed, singing along to the nameless tunes on the radio.

But now the two of them have increased to three and the ratio isn't one Don necessarily comprehends. Charlie's little and clumsy, quick to laugh, quicker to cry. He doesn't sleep the whole night through and he eats liquid food from little glass jars that line the kitchen windowsill, even when empty.

Don resents him, a little. Resents the attention he gets. But even Don understands the worth of a secret that big and he keeps his frustrations to himself; leaves his brother to his mother and gets on with his life, the way he knows he should.

--

Coop's always been an asshole but Don likes the guy anyway, if only because he's not an asshole to _him_.

--

Don is the prodigal son, except he still has money to his name and a whole other life besides. Don is the prodigal son and his mother is so happy to see him (so small and so broken); his father is standing in the doorway, blocking his exit until he has no other option than to step forwards and face the truth.

His mother is dying.

Don is the prodigal son and yes, maybe he didn't lose everything in his possession (even though he left behind a lover and a living and another life) but here he is and there she is and it feels like he's lost out anyway because at the end of the day, if you don't have your family, what do you have?

--

They stake out the Mitchell brothers' cabin for three weeks before there's any sign of trouble. Then it's all movement, all the time – move in, slap on the cuffs, get out of dodge and back on the road. There's barely time for Don to make a phone call home (to leave a quick message on the answering machine, first for his folks, then for Kim) before Cooper hears of another hot trail and they're back to doing what they do best.

If he thinks about it, Don knows this isn't any kind of life but there's something refreshing about always being on the move that catches his more reckless side. Sure, the work's hard and dirty at the best of times but on the odd occasion – like when Coop's burning their last meal over a half-dead campfire, or the two of them are running after some jackass who thought he could murder his own mother and not pay penance – Don catches his partner's eye and has to laugh. It's a testosterone max: guns, cars, cigarettes and alcohol, no one to worry about except yourself and your partner. No responsibility beyond the next horizon, nothing so trifling as a family to give a damn about: nothing so constricting as material possessions or well-meaning loved ones.

"You ready?"

"What's next?"

--

Charlie never blames him for wanting to get away but Don thinks that maybe his brother never understood his intentions because when Charlie walks into the kitchen the next morning and nearly trips over his own feet to see him standing there. He swallows, nervously, and there's a second there when neither of them says a word. Then Don smiles, a little, nods his head towards the papers in his brother's hands and asks, "Homework or extra curricular?"

Charlie shrugs, shuffles about, gives a non-answer.

(He's taller now, still lanky and uncomfortable in his own skin. Hair's longer, too. Don wonders what his brother's been up to for the past six years. Knows he's a professor now; wonders if he ever managed to find a girlfriend, if maybe he ever gets sick of the numbers and the formulae and just sees the world as is).

--

(Charlie was born on a cold day in early spring and to commemorate the event, Don's mother gave him her father's watch. It was far too big and ran too fast but even now, Don keeps it with him wherever he goes).

--

It's three days later and Charlie still hasn't said more than a few words to him. Don finds him in the garage, scrawling desperately over the blackboard. He doesn't really understand what his brother is doing but he wishes he could reach out to him, the way an older brother should.

Instead he watches the way Charlie moves, the intense concentration on his face and the way his fingers start to curl, hovering above his left temple. He's grasping for something just beyond his periphery, struggling perhaps for a flitting idea that's as elusive to him as words are to Don.

(He makes a move to say something but stops as Charlie slaps a palm against the weathered board, rubbing away the chalk lines and throwing dust into the air. He stops, wonders what next and makes the decision to retreat, instead).

--

It's summer when his mother slips away, quiet and inconspicuous as ever. Don comes in to open the curtains and shake her awake; she is cold to the touch, fragile and seemingly asleep.

(Charlie comes into the house for the first time in six months).

Don wants to say he's sorry but the words just won't come and anyway, he never was that good at making Charlie feel better. Instead, he looks at his mother one last time and walks out of the room to find his dad instead.

(Charlie stays in the bedroom all day, even after Mom is taken away. All Alan's attempts at dislodging him from the cold, empty space are met with silent rebuttals until Don walks in and pulls Charlie out by the arm).

--

Don is the prodigal son, Charlie is the genius and it seems odd to Don that he can't imagine his life without his brother anymore.

Don never makes it back to Albuquerque, Kim never marries him and Cooper stays on the road. Terry leaves him again, with the promise of staying in touch, though Don knows that neither of them is that good at keeping promises of that sort. He buys an apartment, has dinner with his dad and Charlie at least once a week and falls into the patterns a regular life can afford him.

And sometimes, if he catches his thoughts drifting towards escape again, well, that's alright too because indulging in fantasy, if only for a split second, is better than actually uprooting again. He knows, of course, that there are some lessons you only need learn once and Don is nothing if not pragmatic, he doesn't need to be told twice that his place is with his family (even if it takes a while for the idea to settle with him. After all, it's _his_ family; he belongs there, in an abstract way).

--

"I don't understand."

And Don doesn't have the words to tell his brother that not understanding is a way of life and that miscomprehension is constant, not an immeasurable variable. He doesn't have the figures that sum to a perfect answer or even one that comes close.

So he shrugs. Leaves the numbers to the mathematician; wonders if one day Charlie will find the equation that numerates their grief.

"Yeah," he says, sighing, "I know you don't." He looks across his shoulder; looks at his brother – really looks at him and considers him, as though he is perhaps a stranger. "I don't think we're supposed to."

For the first time in five years, Charlie looks up to meet his eyes and it doesn't matter, suddenly, that Don doesn't understand him and that Don hasn't seen him and that Don hardly ever took that time to talk to him or work with him; Don _knows_ him, the way a brother should, and Charlie isn't so alien to him after all.

"No." Charlie says. "I guess that's true."

* * *

**FIN. there are no more words **


End file.
